Faramir of Rohan
by AriannaMalfoy
Summary: Oftentimes the actions of one person can change history. Faramir, at the age of 19, runs from Gondor and his father's madness to seek refuge in Rohan. 16 years later, his decision will change the history of Middle Earth. AU and nonslash.
1. Runaway

Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings or any of its characters (more's the pity)

Faramir, son of Denethor of the House of Hurin, took one last look around the chambers that had been his home for the past 19 years. And the young Ranger was determined that it should be for the last time; he would not, once he had escaped, return to the Citadel by any other means than physical force or, Valar forbid, if anything should happen to Boromir and his father should die. He shouldered his pack and carefully, carefully opened the door into the corridor.

He felt a slight pang of guilt when he saw Boromir's room door hanging open, the light from his fireplace pouring into the hall. He did not truly wish to cause his older brother pain, but he simply could not bear another day of the abuse Denethor had been flinging Faramir's way for years now, and Boromir deserved more than to spend his life listening to Denethor and Faramir fighting.

Faramir ghosted down the corridor like the fox he had often been compared to and waited only for the change of the guard to make good his escape from the Citadel and then the city. No one noticed, or if they did, they did not remark upon, a lone horse and rider making their way across the Pelennor to the North.

Boromir woke the next morning with the vague sense that something was not right. He could not put his finger on what it might be, but something in the back of his mind told him that something was missing. He looked around his rooms; everything was in its proper place, nothing was glaringly ajar, in short, nothing had changed since the night before. He got up and walked down the hall toward his brother's rooms, intending to ask him whether he too felt uneasy.

Faramir was not in his rooms. This did not worry Boromir unduly; it was not unusual for Denethor's second son to rise early and Boromir fully expected to find him in the Great Library as usual. But when he got there, he found only the Steward sitting with his head bent over a book, reminding Boromir for one moment of a vulture bent over its prey.

"Father, forgive me, I did not mean to intrude. Have you seen Faramir? I had thought to speak with him - "

"No I have not. Perhaps he is on the practice grounds." There was something unsaid there, but Boromir did not ask, too preoccupied to be curious. He bowed and left, now truly uneasy. Where was his brother?

He soon ascertained that Faramir was not in any of his usual haunts, nor even in the Citadel. Guardsmen were sent out to look for the young Ranger, only to come back and confirm Boromir's worst fears. Faramir, lieutenant of the Ithilien Rangers and second son of Lord Denethor, was nowhere in the city. A further inspection of his rooms proved what Boromir had already known deep down; his brother had cut his losses and run. His spare cloak, sword, bed roll and all other necessities were gone. Boromir cursed softly and rounded on his second – in – command, Ardren.

"Go to the Tower; get a search party together."

"Shouldn't we tell Lord Dene-" Ardren caught sight of the look on Boromir's face and paled, " – thor. Right, yes, of course my lord." He bowed hastily and hurried away.

Boromir was halfway to the army barracks when Denethor caught up with him. "Where are you going with half of the Citadel Guard?" he asked in a tone that was both puzzled and irritated.

Boromir was no fool; he could guess the reason for his brother's sudden departure. He regarded his father coldly. "I am going out to try and find my brother, your son, who appears to have tired of being trod upon by his own father, my lord." Boromir made the title sound as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. Denethor appeared surprised for about two seconds before a mask of cool indifference settled on his face, hiding whatever emotion he might have felt. Then he spoke, and for the first time in his life, Boromir saw the man his brother had run from.

"Why look? He will come begging home when he lacks for food and bed, and if he does not so much the better." Boromir stiffened visibly.

"Tell me I did not hear you say that." Denethor said nothing and Boromir snapped. "You did. You honestly… you poisonous old snake! What did you say to him? What venom drove him from home in the middle of the night?" Denethor still did not speak, perhaps in shock at this sudden tirade from his beloved eldest. Boromir was fuming.

"I go now to find him, and when we return, you will beg on bended knee for that boy's forgiveness." He did not see Denethor falter, nor did he observe the mad light leaving the Steward's eyes as he turned away.

"Boromir!" Denethor started in a shocked tone, but it was too late. Boromir had already stormed out, heading straight for the Tower of Guard.


	2. Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

Five days later:

Boromir paced his chambers restlessly. It had been five days, five long, agonizing days since Faramir had disappeared from Minas Tirith. The Ranger, Boromir thought with grim amusement, had proved far more elusive and self-sufficient than Denethor had thought he would, confounding the best efforts of even his own men. Horse tracks would end and double back on themselves and then disappear altogether, old camp fire signs were non-existent, there was simply no trace of him, as though in elf-fashion he had taken to the trees. Boromir had led some of the patrols himself and been just as baffled as any other man. Nor could he discern where his younger brother was headed; what traces had been left initially had stopped somewhere in the Druadan Forest. Boromir shook his head and stared into the fire, wishing that just this once he could have his brother's far-sightedness.

It had taken Faramir five days to reach the border of Rohan. He had ridden at night until he had passed the Beacon at Halifirien and been glad that none of the patrols he had seen had been headed by his brother, else he might have turned back out of sheer guilt. Several times he had turned his horse, intending to go back to Minas Tirith and his duty, but then he had remembered the venomous words his father had spit at him before he left and his heart hardened. He would not go back again; he had sworn it and he meant it.

Now, after five anxious days, he had finally reached the rolling hills and plains of the Horse-Lords' country. Something in the very air seemed relaxing, as if he were free at last after a lifetime of captivity. He moved his horse beyond the border... and cursed silently as he heard the pounding of hooves coming from the South. He was trapped; there was nowhere to hide and no good explanation for his presence here. He waited with sinking heart for the patrol that would drag him back to Minas Tirith….

But it was not the silver and sable of Gondor that surrounded him now. Faramir breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that the Riders' helms were those of Rohan, as were their cloaks. That, at least, was one point to his advantage.

"Who are you, and what business have you in the Riddermark?" the Leader of the Company demanded. He was a tall, stern man of about thirty with long blond hair; for the first time Faramir was thankful for his red hair, which had previously caused him to stick out among the dark-haired men of Gondor.

"My name is Frealaf; I come from a village on the borders of this country but I ride to Edoras to join your numbers," Faramir gestured to the assembled Company of Rohirrim, who seemed to relax at his words, going so far as to put up their spears. The Marshal looked him over for a long moment as if to determine his truth; Faramir did not flinch or look away.

"Your horse is a fine animal; you will make a good Rider I judge." The Marshal removed his helm; it seemed somehow to make him appear less fierce. "I am Eomund, Chief Marshal of the Mark and kinsman to King Théoden. We are also on our way back to Edoras; ride with us and we shall see how you fare." He shot Faramir an easy smile but there was an underlying intensity in his gaze. Faramir returned the smile somewhat apprehensively.

They had made camp that night before Eomund sought out his newest young charge. He did not think the young man was dangerous, but something in his speech spoke quite plainly his origins, and Rohirric they were not.

Faramir was alone, staring moodily into his small fire. He was starting a new life, sans Denethor. Why then did he still feel like he was drowning?

"Ho, Frealaf! Why so solemn?" The voice was that of Eomund; Faramir looked up, slightly startled, his hand going to the hilt of a dagger. Eomund chuckled.

"My Lord - you startled me."

"Peace! I mean no harm - and nor do you I believe, though your story rings false in some wise." Faramir stiffened.

"You are blunt, my Lord," he replied.

"But not, I trust, in error. What is your true name, lad?"

"It matters little, save that I wish never to hear it said again by my father in anger, or my brother in anguish as it too often was."

"Still, I would have it from you."

"Faramir, son of Denethor of Gondor."

"A runaway?"

"Say rather an exile. My father made it abundantly clear that I was not wanted in Gondor."

"Your brother has been looking for you these past five days."

"I know," Faramir said heavily. Eomund nodded.

"Very well. But our King is not a fool. When you go to him, it would be best to tell him the truth." Faramir looked relieved, as though he had expected Eomund to send him back to Minas Tirith under armed guard.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"I say again; you will make a fine Rider, Faramir of Gondor." With that the Chief Marshal turned and left.

The search for the missing son of Denethor was called off two days later, and within the year, Eomund was killed by orcs. Word never reached Gondor of a young Rider named Faramir who had joined the Third Eored three days later with all the ceremony and formality of a man of Rohan.

And that is all from me for right now. And if anyone knows how to get the accents above the Rohirric names where they belong, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me in a review (hint, hint). My spell-check recognizes Théoden but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do that to the others.


	3. 16 Years Later

To all my reviewers: Wow! Thank you people so much for your responses! I don't think I have ever gotten that many reviews on two chapters before on anything! And thank you so much for your tips on the accents, I will use them. So, without further ado, here is the next chapter!

16 years later

Boromir woke with a start in the middle of the night, the words of the strangest dream he had ever had in his life still fresh in his mind. "Seek for the sword that was broken,

In Imladris it dwells. There shall council be taken, stronger than Morgul spells. There shall be shown a token, that doom is near at hand, for Isildur's bane shall awaken, and the Halfling forth shall stand," he repeated quietly, baffled as to the meaning of the words. He had heard of Isildur's bane; how could he not have, with a lore-master for a father? But the rest of the rhyme made no sense, none whatsoever. Halfling? Imladris? Boromir shook his head, resolving to tell his father in the morning. That was no ordinary dream; it had been a vision of the sort that Faramir used to have.

Faramir. Boromir passed a weary hand over his eyes. He had not thought of his younger brother in a long while; he had hoped he was past the days of being constantly reminded of him. He rose with a sigh. He would tell Denethor of the dream in the morning but for now he could not sleep. He padded silently over to the trunk he had put aside containing Faramir's things, items that Boromir had saved from his brother's rooms when Denethor had ordered them cleaned out two weeks after the search was called off. There wasn't much; Faramir had lived rather austerely even as a child, despite Boromir's best attempts to clutter his rooms up with gifts. There were books, a uniform, Faramir's favorite writing quill and ink, his personal seal, and a letter opener, a fox carving in honor of Faramir's nickname, and a few letters with Faramir's writing on them. Boromir closed the trunk lid with a sigh. Some part of him had accepted a long time ago that Faramir was not coming back, had probably died in the wild on his own long ago but the larger part, the one that needed to know that Faramir, wherever he was in this world, was alive and well, could not believe it. "Why couldn't you have stayed little brother?" Boromir asked in a whisper, standing up. He did not know that somewhere along the River Entwash, Faramir also rose from his bedroll with sweat covering his face for the third night in a row.

Faramir rose, deeply unsettled. His horse nudged him in the back, a comfortingly familiar presence. He had grown to share the deep love and respect for horses that seemed to be in the very blood of the Rohirrim; after Éomund was slain, he had been largely alone in this society and until he had learned more of the local customs he had been completely lost. Gradually he had grown to know the Rohirrim and been accepted by them; they had found out early on that Faramir did not wish to discuss his family or his past and left it at that, for which the young Rider was eternally grateful. And if some of them tossed strange looks his way at first, they had ceased to do so the first few times he had saved their necks in battle.

"Faramir?" Éomer's voice broke through his reverie. "It is your watch. I do not wake you, I see." Faramir shook his head. "The same dream?" Éomer asked. Éomer was a great deal like his father, with the same astuteness that had so unnerved everyone except Faramir, who could keep up with him.

"The same," Faramir confirmed.

"You should tell King Théoden. This should not be ignored."

"He will know soon enough; it is only two days' ride back to Edoras. I will tell him then if the Wormtongue does not interfere," Faramir answered, looking away. Éomer nodded.

"Take your watch then."

Faramir was correct; in two days he was walking up the steps of Meduseld. He was nearly in the door before he was met by a man in sable robes; he stopped with an inward groan. He had gotten so close; did he really have to deal with this nuisance right now?

"If you would move aside, Councilor Grima, I have urgent news for Théoden King," Faramir said, hoping the polite approach would work this time.

"The King is ill, he does not wish – "Wormtongue (for so he was called by all who saw him for what he was) started.

"Such has been your excuse for many days and yet I note that he yet holds court. If one did not know better they would think that you did not wish the King to receive news, Grima," Faramir said evenly. Wormtongue stared for a moment, not used to men who could outtalk him and were not susceptible to his leechcraft.

"That is absurd, everyone knows that I – "

"Oh Grima get out of the way and let Faramir through," a female voice, lightly tinged with irritation said from behind them. "The day grows old and we age with it! King Théoden is quite well and you know it!" Faramir looked up with relief.

"Éowyn!" he exclaimed. He hurried up the stairs with a smile and embraced her, not seeing the black look that Wormtongue shot at his back. Éowyn and Faramir had met only last year when Éomer had been made Third Marshall of the Mark and been thoroughly taken with one another at first sight. They had every intention of announcing their betrothal as soon as possible. Faramir gently pulled away from the embrace and turned to enter the throne room.

Was it him or had this room become more dark, more silent since the last time he had been here? Théoden was old, granted, but not so old that there should have been this strange pall of constant sickness hanging around him. Faramir uneasily dismissed it as imagination and continued forward, kneeling before the man he had come to respect as his ruler and, to some strange extent, mentor, as he was to all his men.

"Faramir – you look tired, lad."

"My rest has been somewhat disturbed of late my Lord." Faramir proceeded to describe the strange vision that had been haunting his sleep of late. Théoden frowned.

"It cannot be ignored, that is clear." The King fell silent for a long moment, deep in thought.

"A messenger must be sent to Imladris," he said at last. He did not have to speak again; Faramir already knew. Théoden did not often call upon Faramir's heritage as a man of Gondor, but he was doing so now; only the youngest Hurin, in all of Rohan, would know the location of the hidden valley of Rivendell.

"When should I leave my Lord?"

"Tomorrow morning." Faramir bowed and turned to leave. "Oh, and Faramir –" Faramir turned back, "my niece is very fond of you, as am I. Be careful." Faramir grinned and nodded, then turned with heavy heart to break the news to his beloved.

Another chapter! Yay! And the accents worked! Thank you so much once again for the tips. I will try to update as fast as possible since I have this pretty much already written.


	4. The Council of Elrond

Ok, ok, I capitulate

Ok, ok, I capitulate! I have added the reason that Boromir has not thought of Faramir in a while, although the fact that he thinks him dead might have something to do with it too, and the addition should be up as soon as the chapter replacement kicks in. Other than that I am glad that everybody liked the chapter. And I am mainly going with movie-verse here, although I will try to mesh book and movie so that this makes as much sense as possible. Ahem, so, anyway, on with the next chapter.

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Unaware of the fact though they were, Faramir and Boromir left for Rivendell on the same day, one starting from Minas Tirith and the other from Edoras. Faramir embraced Éowyn once again before mounting his horse. "Faramir – " she started, then bit her lip as though to hold back what she had wanted to say. Her eyes darted to the shadows lining the stable – had one of them moved, or had she just imagined it? Suddenly, the idea of informing Faramir of her concerns seemed both more and less appealing. She had been at Court long enough to understand how whispers could be dangerous, and doubly so if they concerned the King's favored councilor. Faramir, however, had noticed her hesitation. He stopped with one foot in the stirrup, a troubled frown crossing his face.

"Éowyn?" She shook her head. No, she would not tell him; he had enough to worry about without adding her welfare to the list

"Nothing, it's nothing. Come back to me safely, do you understand?"

"Éowyn, it is more than nothing, I can tell – " she shook her head again.

"Do not concern yourself. Safe journey." Faramir hesitated for one moment more and then swung up and into the saddle.

"I will be home before you know it," he promised. With that he was gone out the gates, still puzzled and more than a little worried at what his beloved would not tell him. He did not know that he missed his brother's arrival by only four days.

This pattern held true, and so Faramir arrived in Rivendell a full four days before Boromir. He did not see the older man arrive; indeed, neither had any idea the other was there until the next morning. Faramir had found the great library of Imladris and almost gleefully begun to wade his way through the vast collection of books. The Rohirrim did not have a written language and Faramir had already exhausted the relatively small library of Meduseld. To sit for hours on end and read was a luxury that he had not had since leaving Minas Tirith; he half expected to hear Boromir come striding up behind him, attempting to be quiet and not succeeding, or to hear Denethor's sharp voice, raised in annoyance, demanding that he get out to the practice ring. Faramir shook his head to clear it of the shades of the past and went back to the book he was reading.

The Council of Elrond assembled at first light, and a more curious and unusual gathering of peoples Faramir had never seen. Lord Elrond was seated with both elves of his own household and blond-haired elves of foreign lands. Dwarves there were also, seated on the other side of the room from the elves, Faramir noted with some amusement. His gaze moved on and to came to rest on Gandalf; he was somewhat disconcerted to find the wizard already looking at him with a knowing expression on his face. Gandalf raised one eyebrow and motioned to Faramir's green Rider's cloak and decidedly Rohirric sword. Faramir smiled slightly and shrugged. Gandalf turned his head to glance further along the circle and then returned his gaze to Faramir. The young Rider followed the Maia's line of sight – and his heart nearly stopped when he saw who else was at the Council.

"Boromir," he half-whispered. Boromir was not looking in his direction; he was studying the others even as Faramir had just done. His eyes seemed fixed upon a young boy seated next to Gandalf. It was only after closer inspection that Faramir realized that not a boy but a Halfling sat at Gandalf's side, a_ perian_ from Northern tales and legends, kuddukûn as they were named in Rohirric. Right now though, Faramir was studying his brother's face.

It had, Faramir realized, been too long since he had seen Boromir. The older man's face was leaner, more tired than Faramir remembered it; the beard, too, was new, making him appear older. He seemed somehow more wary than he had before – the Boromir that Faramir had known had never looked upon any with suspicion unless given cause. In fact, the look on the Captain-General's face was eerily reminiscent of Denethor; many was the time that Faramir had seen that particular look directed at _him_. There was, however, no more time for observation. The warning bell tolled one last time; the Council Chamber grew quiet. Boromir turned his attention to Lord Elrond, stopping just short of seeing Faramir among the crowd of new faces.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old – you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor," Elrond began. "Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo." He went around with the introductions to Frodo until he came to the men. "And here are Boromir of Gondor and Faramir of Rohan, who come on strikingly similar errands." At these words, Boromir's head came up sharply; he scanned the circle, barely able to believe his ears. Faramir? Boromir looked toward Rohan's emissary but could barely see for the angle at which he was sitting. He caught only a glimpse of red hair; he stared, distracted. It had to be! But how? How could… but try as he might he could not see well enough to be sure.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo." Everyone's attention was suddenly diverted to the hobbit, and Boromir cursed internally. Of all the blastedly inconvenient times for him to be distracted….! He returned his gaze to the center of the circle, where the hobbit – Frodo? – had placed a single golden band of metal.

"So it is true," Boromir murmured. He sat forward, mentally dismissing any and all other considerations. The council was all-important, more so than he had ever imagined. "In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark. But in the west a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: "Your doom is near at hand. Isildur's Bane is found." He stared a moment longer; there was a strange silence around the room.

"It is a gift… a gift to the foes of Mordor!" he exclaimed, standing up. Warming to his topic, he kept going, thinking only of the last battle in Osgiliath and how many lives could have been saved with this weapon. "Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy! Let us use it against him!" Boromir had one motto in battle – fight fire with fire, and if they could turn the Dark Lord's power against him… the possibilities were staggering.

"You cannot wield it! None of us can! The One Ring answers to Sauron alone; it has no other master!" A man who looked strangely like to Boromir argued, standing up as well.

"And what would a Ranger know of this matter?" Faramir heard Boromir ask contemptuously. He winced; he had hoped never to hear that voice again, especially not from Boromir, the voice of their father. But the next words drove all thought of the past from his mind.

"He is no mere Ranger," the Elf-Prince Legolas said. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

"Aragorn?" Boromir asked incredulously, echoing his brother's thoughts had he known it. "This – is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," the elf replied.

"Havo dad, Legolas," Aragorn said, looking somewhat uncomfortable and motioning with his hand to emphasize his request. Legolas sat down, but Boromir remained standing and staring. This man – this scraggly-looking stranger from the North – was the King? The Heir of Isildur had lived all these years and yet he had never come to Gondor's aid when she was most in need of her sovereign. He had effectively abandoned his people in the South in favor of tramping around the frozen North, most probably acquiring a healthy collection of lice along the way! The knowledge beat into Boromir like a hammer. He and all his men, to say nothing of his father, had risked all when the whole time they might have had the aid of their kin in the North, had their King seen fit to announce himself sooner. He had continued to stare at Aragorn as these thoughts passed through his mind. Awe for the man's heritage was quickly turning to contempt, and the more Boromir looked at him the more a boiling rage built somewhere in the region of his chest. He sneered bitterly.

"Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king," he said at length. That was too much for Faramir.

"And are you suddenly the mouth of Denethor?" he asked furiously, his voice just loud enough to be heard by Boromir, "or are you truly grown so arrogant that you would deny your King?" The sound of Faramir's voice knocked Boromir out of his internal raging. A pain so sharp it was almost joy lanced its way through him at the sound of familiar tones. Reason began to kick in now, and he realized with a jolt of horror what he had been thinking and saying. Since when was he in any position to judge the decisions of the King of the Western kingdoms? When indeed had he become his father's, no, their father's mouthpiece? For he knew now without the slightest doubt that it was his brother sitting there next to Aragorn. His hair may have grown longer and his face older but his voice was the same, quiet and yet forceful. They traded glances for only a moment before Boromir sat down again heavily, but it was enough for Boromir to see the look in Faramir's eyes and be both amazed and slightly ashamed of himself. Everyone seemed to sense the releasing of tension in the room; there was a collective (if silent) sigh of relief.

"You have only one choice; the Ring must be destroyed." Elrond said sternly. Boromir still sat with his head in his hand; the dwarf, Gimli, stood up.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" he asked. He swung his axe… and landed flat on his back as the weapon shattered, leaving the Ring untouched. Frodo clutched at his temples as if a sudden headache plagued him. Elrond winced at the sound of the collision.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Gloin, by any craft we here possess," he said. "The Ring was made in the Cracks of Doom; it must be taken deep into the heart of Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this."

Boromir looked up at last. "One does not simply walk into Mordor," he said, his voice heavy with the dread of one who knows of what he speaks from experience. "Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. Surely there must be some other way!"

Legolas stood. "Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!" he said hotly.

Gimli leapt to his feet. "And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?!"

Boromir rose. "And if we fail, what then?! What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?!"

"I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf," Gimli yelled, and so the arguing began. Beside Faramir, Aragorn shook his head and remained seated and silent, one of few who did. Faramir's respect for him rose a notch.

At last, a small voice rose above the din. "I will take it! I will take the Ring to Mordor though – though I do not know the way." Silence. It was surprising how loud a hobbit's voice could be, really. The majority of the council looked at Frodo with a mix of surprise and incredulity; Gandalf seemed to be in an obscure kind of pain.

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear," the wizard said heavily.

"If by my life or death I can protect you, I will," Aragorn added, rising and then dropping to one knee to be at eye level with the hobbit. "You have my sword."

"And you have my bow," Legolas said proudly, stepping forward.

"And my axe." This was Gimli, apparently satisfied with this arrangement.

"You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is truly the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done." Boromir strode forward, his gaze resting on Faramir, who also rose.

"As will Rohan," he said firmly, coming to stand next to his brother. There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence between them as they regarded one another up close for the first time, wondering how much had changed between them.

"Hoy!" A cry came from the bushes where Faramir had previously noted movement and another Halfling burst forward. "Mr. Frodo's not going anywhere without me."

"No, indeed it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not," Elrond replied in an amused tone.

"We're coming too!" This time the Elven Lord truly was surprised as two more Halflings emerged from the doorway behind him. "You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us," one of them said. Boromir smiled at the idea, instinctively looking to Faramir, who also grinned. For a brief moment the 16 years they had been apart might well not have happened, then it was gone. Faramir coughed and turned his attention back to Lord Elrond.

"Ten companions," Elrond mused, seeming pleased. "So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

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/Author sweats/ man that was a long chapter but I wanted to get through the whole Council in one go. I will, however, leave the private reunion between Boromir and Faramir till next chapter /grins and cackles at cries of protest/ yes, that's right, I'm mean. Don't need to beg for reviews on this one, so I'll leave you to it.


	5. Reunion

I have gotten so many reviews and questions on this one that I will try to answer some of them. A couple of people have asked me about letting Boromir live, and all I can tell you is that you will have to keep reading (although I will say that he reminds me in some aspects of my own older brother, so I'm rather fond of him). And yes, Boromir and Faramir have a lot of catching up to do and Boromir may find out that Faramir has changed a bit over the years. But I digress; on with the chapter.

The Council Chamber had been empty only a few moments before Boromir accosted his brother. For a long moment they stood staring at one another, not knowing how to start the conversation or indeed what to say. Boromir slowly reached out and took his brother by the shoulders, as if to make sure that he was not, in fact, a spirit. "Faramir….. " he shook the younger man gently before pulling him in for a bear hug and Faramir found himself wondering if one of his ribs wasn't perhaps cracked. "Don't you ever scare me like that again! Do you have any idea how worried I've been about you? You might have been dead for all I knew and now I find you here of all places…what on Arda possessed you to leave like that without a word or even a note? Did you even once think about Imrahil? He might have sheltered you and then I might have at least known you lived yet! _What happened_!" Boromir had let go now and was staring angrily. Faramir sighed.

"I did not go to Imrahil because I did not want to start a civil war when Denethor demanded he hand me over and Imrahil refused. As for scaring you, I thought it would be better than hearing that you had been penalized for aiding and abetting a fugitive or having you talk me out of it. I was going mad Boromir; I – it was intolerable." He looked away, refused to continue along that line of conversation or thought. He might, someday, be able to tell Boromir what Denethor had done and said that had caused Faramir to leave Minas Tirith for good, but not now, not today. He was having enough trouble facing his brother when he had not expected to see him again in this lifetime.

"I did not question your leaving," Boromir replied, his anger disappearing. "I am glad to see you alive," he ended gruffly. Faramir smiled, shaking off the phantoms of the past.

"I nearly swallowed my boot laces when I saw you here I can tell you! What has happened that Gondor can spare her Captain-General?"

"Perhaps you should come and see yourself," Boromir answered tentatively. Faramir shook his head.

"I will not come back, if only to avoid getting myself hanged for desertion, not during Lord Denethor's lifetime and perhaps not afterward either." Boromir opened his mouth, not understanding his brother's reluctance to return to their homeland.

"I am not like our father – "

"Your father Boromir, not mine. I gave that up a long time ago. I have friends in Rohan, people I would trust with my life, and a Lady waiting for me to return. My life is in Rohan, brother."

Boromir opened his mouth as if to argue, and then what Faramir had said finally hit. Boromir did a double take.

"A Lady? As in, possibly, wedding bells rang and I didn't hear them?" He couldn't stop a sly grin spreading across his face even as he tried to appear outraged.

The tension eased; Faramir grinned ruefully in response. "No, brother, not yet. We had intended to announce our engagement as soon as possible and then this came up." Boromir laughed delightedly.

"Congratulations! And who may I ask is the lucky lady?" Faramir smiled and told him and the conversation moved on. There was, after all, 16 years worth of catching up to do.

Gandalf and Elrond looked on as the brothers moved on along the paths of Rivendell.

"So, he lives," Elrond remarked. Gandalf nodded.

"By some miracle, yes. I had feared for young Faramir when he disappeared."

"As did we all. Will he be ready?"

"He must be." Elrond nodded and they returned to the inner chambers, one concern alleviated.

And that is all for this chapter. Not very long, but highly necessary. Hope everyone likes it, and if not, flames will be used to toast Denethor.


	6. A Duel and the Journey South

(Authoress cowers in a corner, throwing up hands to protect herself) Ok, ok, stop kicking me and I'll post!

Chibi-Kaz – yeah, I did think about the name thing, but then I thought that a). Since Faramir was the younger son, and Grima didn't exactly go out with the patrols, he probably would not know who he was, especially since Denethor was not particularly proud or even fond of him and b). Faramir is simply not the type that would live that big a lie for all those years. He might be able to stand it for a while, but after a certain amount of time I think the sheer hypocrisy of the situation would bother him.

And now on with the chapter!

Boromir woke to the sound of small voices murmuring lowly and the smell of bacon cooking. They had been traveling for three days now, and Boromir thought he had finally sorted out which hobbit was which. Frodo was the one with the darkest hair, Sam the lightest, Merry was the one with the square chin and, Boromir thought, the one with the most sense as far as he could tell. That left Pippin, the youngest member of the Company and the most inquisitive.

He sat up and got to his feet, stretching out the kinks from sleeping on the ground against a particularly uncomfortable tree root all night long, and looked around. Gandalf was sitting on top of a rock smoking, as was Aragorn. Legolas was to be seen sitting nearby, apparently listening with some amusement to whatever the hobbits were talking about. Gimli was still snoring some distance away; Boromir now understood why he had dreamt of thunderstorms the night before. The one person he did not see was...

"Where is Faramir?" he asked. Aragorn pointed toward the dense trees they had camped in the middle of. Boromir nodded and, after a moment, walked off in the direction the Ranger had indicated.

He could hear a soft swishing noise as he continued in, a sound he recognized well. As he got closer he could see the source of that noise; Faramir did not even notice his brother enter the clearing where he was doing what he termed his morning practice routine, swinging his sword through the air with a precision and accuracy that was impressive given the heavy blade he was using.

"How can you stand that clumsy Rohirric weapon?" Boromir asked in an amused tone of voice. Faramir sheathed the weapon in question and turned with a half-smile.

"I would wager that you could not do the same, brother." Boromir snorted, then grinned mischievously.

"You are right; I could do better," he said, unable to resist taunting his brother a little. Faramir raised one eyebrow.

"Is that a challenge?" There was a gleam in his eyes that Boromir did not recognize at first, a certainty and anticipation.

"It is," Boromir answered, still grinning. He unsheathed his own sword and settled himself into a fighting stance.

They circled each other, each looking for a weakness, a foothold. It was Boromir who struck first, a horizontal sweep which Faramir blocked easily and countered with a diagonal cut. Boromir stepped to the side and blocked this then swept the sword around, attempting to get under Faramir's defenses. Faramir, however, was too quick for that, pulling back and to the side to come at his brother at a different angle.

By now the sound of clashing steel had alerted the rest of the Company. They came running, only to stand watching the two skilled swordsmen in their deadly dance, so much exhilaration in their expressions that no one doubted their purpose was not to kill but to test each other.

Finally though, it was Boromir who made a fatal error in judgment. He turned just a second too late, just barely blocked Faramir's sword, and the next instant felt the cold steel resting against his collarbone. It was now Faramir's turn to be amused as he regarded his brother's rueful expression.

"Clumsy Rohirric blade eh?" Boromir grinned.

"I may have to rethink that one," he admitted as he sheathed his own weapon. Faramir laughed. The hobbits stared, wide-eyed.

"Could you teach us, Faramir? We're not very good with these," Pippin asked, indicating his own small sword. Boromir laughed.

"I note they want instruction from the winner," he said fondly. "Although that may not be a bad idea."

"You should learn," Aragorn agreed. "And these two are obviously good teachers." Boromir flashed him a grin; Faramir nodded.

"You may need that knowledge ere this journey is finished. Very well."

"But not right now. We must continue; the day grows old," Gandalf reminded.

The hobbits had insisted on taking their turn on watch from the very first, albeit accompanied by one of the others, and so it was that Boromir found himself on watch with Merry that night. The hobbit's expression was strangely pensive, as though he were trying to work through a problem and not having much success.

"What troubles you?" Boromir asked, curious.

Merry chewed his lip a moment more before turning to the big man.

"I've been wondering... your names are so similar, and yet... are you and Faramir related? Only you couldn't be because he's from Rohan... could you?" Boromir smiled somewhat sadly.

"Aye, we're related. He's my younger brother, though I've not seen him in near 16 years." Merry gaped for a moment.

"What –"he started, then seemed to realize that this might be too personal a question and stopped. "Oh," he managed rather lamely. Boromir laughed at this.

"A long story, and not one for this night, or for me to tell. But I must confess, I had never heard of a hobbit, or of the Shire before the Council. Tell me of your homeland." Merry grinned at this and launched into descriptions, talking of the rivers and forests of Buckland and the rolling green hills of Hobbiton, which he occupied himself with for the rest of the watch shift.

As the weeks passed, Boromir became more and more aware of the fact that he did not truly know the man his brother had become. The years on his own in Rohan had made him more confident for one thing; Boromir remembered a time when a harsh word from Denethor was sufficient to make Faramir flinch, knowing what was coming. Now somehow Boromir got the feeling that the younger man would give as good as he got and most likely win. His smile was no longer tainted by the melancholy that had surrounded him as a boy; his eyes had a laughing light in them now as he watched the hobbits or told stories around the campfire with the rest of them.

He was happy, Boromir realized. He had no right to try and make him come back to a country that, while he had loved it, had caused him only misery while he was there. And yet Boromir still longed more than anything to see Faramir walk beside him in the White City again, to know that he would see Faramir again after this war was over, not just when he found the time to go to Rohan, and that in secret to prevent their father finding out that Faramir yet lived. For if there was one man who would deny Faramir his happiness it would be Denethor; Boromir knew that now. He did not know what had caused his brother to flee, but he recognized that the answer, at the root of it, was the Steward.

"You could have all that if you brought the Ring back to Gondor, demand anything you wished in return for the service to your country, including a pardon for Faramir," a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. Boromir shook his head. Where had that thought come from? Dismissing the idea firmly, he turned back to where Faramir was teaching the hobbits to fight.

"Move your feet!" Aragorn called. Boromir smiled and laughed, forgetting about such things for the time being.

"If anyone was asking my opinion, which I note they're not, I'd say we're taking the long way round," Gimli said from his seat next to Gandalf. "Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome." Gandalf looked troubled and shook his head.

"No Gimli; I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice."

About that time there was an "Ouch!" and a clatter as swords went crashing to the ground.

"Sorry!" Faramir said; there was a thud as the hobbits jumped on him and small shouts of:

"He's got my arm, he's got my arm!" Boromir and Aragorn were laughing; Legolas had jumped up on top of a rock and was watching something in the distance.

"What is that?" Sam asked, noticing the same thing Legolas' attention had been drawn to.

"Nothing, just a whiff of cloud," Gimli said, still puffing on a pipe.

"It's moving fast," Faramir said with a frown.

"Against the wind," Boromir added, growing more uneasy by the second.

"Crebain, from Dunland!"

"Hide!"

In a matter of moments the hill was empty. The fire was put out; the packs were hidden along with their owners. Boromir watched from underneath a patch of brush as the crows passed overhead, squawking raucously and turned as soon as they had cleared the hill, swooping past again. They were scarcely out of sight before the Company had emerged from hiding.

"Spies of Saruman; the passage south is being watched. We must take the pass of Caradhras," Gandalf said sourly.

This chapter was kind of from Boromir's point of view; the next one should be more Faramir's pov. Review and I'll get it up faster (or at least I'll try).


	7. Caradhras

I am so sorry that it took me this long to get the chapter up (life interfered in the form of too much school work and a hard drive transfer that did not go as well as expected), but here it is at last. Thank you to those of you that gave me the needed kick in the rear to get me typing.

The wind was howling around them, sounding more like a shrill shriek of laughter than any natural phenomenon; Faramir pulled his cloak tighter around himself and the hobbit he carried, Merry he thought. He had long ago ceased to be able to feel his feet; he could only hope that the rest of him did not follow. He had not seen so much snow in all his life; it snowed seldom in Rohan and practically never in Gondor.

He nearly ran into Boromir when the elder brother stopped. "We cannot go further tonight," the big man called to the others, who had stopped also. Faramir nodded agreement.

"Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices on the wind, and these stones are aimed at us." As if to underscore his point there was the sound of a boulder being dislodged by the wind and sliding down the mountainside.

"I do call it the wind, but that does not make what you say untrue," Aragorn conceded. "We must stop or go back, and we have passed no place on the way up that offered more shelter than this cliff-wall we are under now."

The snow piled up quickly even as the companions huddled against the mountainside. The hobbits huddled behind Bill the pony, whom Faramir had rubbed down as best he could and wrapped in a dry blanket. Faramir himself stared into the snow unseeingly.

"_Faramir!" The youngest son of the House of Hurin stiffened and turned slowly at the sound of his father's voice behind him._

"_My Lord?" He asked, trying not to betray the weariness he felt._

"_When were you planning on informing me of this?" Denethor asked, waving a piece of parchment and his expression nothing short of disgust. He did not seem to see the blood spattered on his younger son's leather armor or the lines of fatigue and grief on his face._

"_It seems my Captain has already done so. I had thought one report – "_

"_Would make up for the loss of nearly a quarter of the men under your command? Would excuse your incompetence in something so simple as a scouting mission?"_

"_The orcs outnumbered us ten to one –"_

"_Were you not told to scout, not actively engage the enemy?"_

"_If I might be permitted to finish a sentence – "Faramir attempted, his anger rising ever faster to its boiling point._

"_To make excuses? I think not! With such a fool as yourself defending Gondor the Enemy may rest assured of victory!"_

_And Faramir felt something deep down inside snap. He straightened visibly, a cold fury in his eyes to match Denethor's. _

"_I had felt, my Lord Steward, that you would not appreciate it if your Lieutenant appeared in your Council Room covered with blood and stinking. Clearly I was wrong and you would have me drag myself from what was very nearly my death bed and present to you what you have already heard, therefore being redundant and giving you yet another thing to find fault with in me. Of course you do that if I so much as breath, so I do not know why I still make the attempt to please you. Good day to you, My Lord." He turned on his heel to leave; a rough hand on his arm turned him back...._

Faramir was quite literally shaken back to the present by Boromir. Something about the cold seemed to have affected all of the Company in similar fashion; the hobbits were also drowsing and Faramir noted with some consternation that Bill the pony was shivering uncontrollably as he was buffeted by the wind.

"This cold will be the death of the Halflings, Gandalf," Boromir said, lifting Frodo up out of his snowy cocoon. "It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves." He looked at Faramir sidelong and the younger pointedly ignored him.

"Give them this," Gandalf said, pulling a flask from his pack. "Miruvor, the cordial of Imladris, a parting gift from Elrond. Only a mouthful each for all of us; it is strong."

They went for little longer before the warmth of the liquor had worn off. Boromir, as was his habit, watched Faramir for a brief moment as he attempted to conceal his shivering under the Rider's cloak he wore before jumping to his feet.

"What say you to a fire?" he asked. "The choice seems near now between fire and death."

"You may light a fire if you can," Gandalf replied.

Ten minutes later, Boromir found himself wondering if Gandalf hadn't waited this long on purpose. The wood they had brought refused to light and nothing elf, dwarf or man could do would coax so much as a spark. His suspicions were put to rest a moment later when the wizard himself came forward, crying some words in the Sindarin tongue that Boromir had learned so little of and the wood burst into flame.

The last of the tinder burned just as morning dawned. The snow had, thankfully, lessened; the first night on Caradhras was finally passed.


	8. Moria

Sorry this one is taking so long. I have some parts of this story already written but others, like this one, are eluding me as yet, so be patient.

And, alas, my secret is out. Boromir will indeed live in this one; I have ulterior motives and other uses for him.

The group was faced with a dilemma almost immediately. There was a wall of snow in either direction as tall as the hobbits heads and in some spots as tall as any of the men. Legolas found himself the object of his companions' wrath as he stepped onto the snow as light as air.

"That is fine for you Master Elf, but I fear the rest of us cannot walk on snow," Faramir remarked.

"I more than fear it; I know it," Boromir joked. "Ah well, as they say in Gondor, when heads are at a loss – "

"Bodies must serve," Aragorn finished.

"And if you do not mind using your shield for a somewhat more prosaic purpose, Boromir, we may have help," Faramir added. Boromir looked dubiously at the shield but handed it over. He found himself laughing a moment later when Faramir, ingenious as usual, started scooping away at the snow with it.

They moved down the mountainside with surprising speed. Aragorn took to employing his sword to loosen the places where the snow was packed tight, and Boromir simply bulled his way through with his bare hands. They came back breathing hard and rubbing their hands together but triumphant.

"There is a path down the mountain, slippery though it may prove," Aragorn said, throwing an amused glance over his shoulder at Faramir, who grinned ruefully and continued to brush the snow off of his right side and out of his hair. He had indeed slipped on the snow and ice on the way back up, much to the consternation of his brother and Aragorn on such a narrow ledge. Fortunately the only harm that had been done was to his dignity.

"Going white at age thirty-five is not a good sign, brother," Boromir said in jest.

"If I stay around you much longer I may yet!" Faramir replied lightly.

They stopped near the base of the mountain near nightfall. There seemed to be a mutual consensus within the group that they could not try again; Caradhras itself would not allow the passage. They were left with a choice of the lesser of two evils.

"We must get off the mountain," Boromir said at last, voicing what all of them were thinking. "We should make for the Gap of Rohan and take the West Road to - " he stopped, looking at Faramir with chagrin.

"What? To where?" Pippin asked, his interest piqued.

"Go ahead, say it," Faramir said. "It is an option, unpleasant though it may be for some of us."

"Minas Tirith," Boromir finished. Merry nearly sighed in frustration. Always they skirted the issue, never truly explaining, and Merry was too polite to openly ask.

Pippin, however, had no such inhibitions. "Why would it be unpleasant?" he enquired, his expression curious. Faramir smiled somewhat tightly.

"Let us simply say that it might not be so good for my health," he replied. He looked away, silently closing the conversation. Pippin opened his mouth as if to ask another question but closed it when Merry kicked him and shook his head.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard," Aragorn replied, shaking his head.

"If we cannot go over the mountain, let us go under it. Let us go through the Mines of Moria." The Dwarf's suggestion was met with silence.

"The Road may lead to Moria but how can we be certain that it will lead through?" Aragorn asked darkly. "I once passed through the Dimrill Gate, and though I came out again, the memory is very evil." The Ranger frowned; for a moment there was an expression of deep sadness in his eyes and Faramir wondered why Aragorn had passed through the lost dwarven realm and what had happened that the memory of the place was so very dark.

"Let the Ringbearer decide," Gandalf said with an effort. Frodo looked around him; Gimli's expression was eager, Boromir's uncertain, and Aragorn's dark and brooding.

"We will go through the Mines," the hobbit decided at last. Gandalf nodded heavily.

"So be it."

It was twenty miles to the base of Zirak – Zigil, two days' travel. At first Aragorn shook off Faramir's preoccupied air as wariness, which given the circumstances was more than called for. He cursed himself for three kinds of fool when he realized what it was that truly bothered the younger Hurin. Faramir, like his father, had the ability to read people like open books, but he had one talent that Denethor had never exhibited. He was prone to visions and premonitions. Aragorn was gifted with some small measure of Foresight himself; it was not mere unease at the memories that Moria brought back for him that fueled his reluctance to enter the Mines. Faramir would most likely be feeling much the same thing.

"Faramir." The Rider woke with a start, breathing in gasps. Aragorn shook his head; he had woken the younger man from a fevered vision when he had roused him for his watch.

"You feel it as well? " Faramir looked at the Ranger sharply, then nodded.

"Of course; you are of the Dunedain, gifted with Foresight. You would know." He shook his head. "I had hoped I would grow out of it." Aragorn put a hand on Faramir's shoulder.

"You will not grow out of it, but you may learn to control it. Such dreams usually cease to plague you as soon as you do something about them." Faramir nodded heavily.

"I know. In Rohan… they are a suspicious people; I do not normally say anything." Aragorn rose.

"Just remember; you cannot change Destiny. They are warnings, nothing more, nothing less, giving us a little more time to prepare for what is coming. Do not try to follow him, Faramir. It is your watch."

"The walls of Moria," Gimli breathed in awe and something like to reverence. They had reached the foot of the mountain at last. Legolas looked at the stone walls and shuddered; Faramir could not help but agree with him. There was a foreboding air about this place and somehow Faramir could not shake the feeling that they were being watched.

"Ithildin," Gandalf breathed, brushing away dirt on a seemingly solid wall to reveal a pattern. "It reflects only starlight and moonlight." The moon emerged from behind the clouds and the pattern shone white, almost too bright against the night sky.

"It reads: The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter," Gandalf translated, motioning to the strange characters of the elven language.

"What's that mean?" Pippin queried.

"It's very simple; if you're a friend you speak the password and the doors will open," Gandalf replied. He leveled the staff at the door. "Annon Edhellen, edro hi ammen!" he commanded. The gates sat silent and unmoving. A push produced nothing; it was the right password or nothing apparently.

Half an hour later they were still outside. Gandalf had, by now, resorted to High Elven, such that Faramir could no longer understand him; Boromir had sat down, as had Legolas and Gimli, to clean equipment or inventory their packs. The two youngest hobbits were wandering on the shores of the lake aimlessly; Frodo and Sam were sitting quietly by and waiting.

Quite suddenly Faramir knew the answer. "It is a riddle," he said, jumping to his feet. "Speak 'friend' and enter! Mellon!" With a grinding sound the doors swung outwards, revealing the dark caverns of the dwarven realm. Gandalf looked at the younger Hurin with surprise.

"A simple solution, from a much kinder age," the Wizard mused. "Well done."

Aragorn watched Denethor's eldest as the doors opened. From the expression on his face, he could tell that the Captain-General was more than a little repulsed by the thought of entering into the caves; he seemed to be repressing the urge to look around nervously. With a flash of insight, Aragorn realized that Boromir was claustrophobic. He was handling the fear admirably, but the signs were still there. Faramir quietly laid a hand on his brother's shoulder and murmured something; Boromir looked startled for a moment and then broke into a wide grin. Aragorn sighed in relief. Faramir had taken care of the matter; Aragorn did not know what he had said, but whatever it had been worked. Aragorn just hoped that none of them noticed what it was they were walking on.


	9. A Journey in the Dark

Ok, here goes. I will try to answer a few questions during the course of the chapter, so hang in there. I have also done a bit of fine tuning and rewriting in chapters 1-5; the most noticeable changes are in chapter 1 and chapter 3. The rest were just minor matters of wording that I didn't like.

"Soon Master Elf you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves!" Gimli was saying. "Roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine; a mine!"

There was a crunching noise under Boromir's feet; he looked down. "This is no mine," he said, horror creeping into his voice as he looked around, "it's a tomb!" Faramir saw what his brother meant when he looked around him closer. Underneath the dust and the dirt of the cave entrance was a heap of bodies, pierced through with arrows, mouths open and axes clutched in skeletal fingers. Legolas pulled an arrow out of one, examined it for a split second and threw it down like a hot poker.

"Goblins!" he spat.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here," Boromir said, all too eager to get out of Moria in the first place.

"Get out of here; get out!"

There was a cry from behind them, Frodo from the sound of it. Faramir turned around to find a nightmare on the other side of the doors.

"Strider!"

"Aragorn!"

Faramir and Sam cried out at the same time, both going darting for the many-tentacled beast that held Frodo upside down over the surface of the lake. In a second Boromir and Aragorn had joined them, as had Legolas. Faramir found himself darting tentacles even as he slashed at them and tried to reach the one that held Frodo. Arrows whizzed past his ear and the beast's groans drowned out any other sound. Finally, however, Frodo dropped into Boromir's arms after Aragorn chopped off the tentacle with one mighty blow.

"Get into the mines!" Gandalf cried.

"Legolas! Into the caves!" Boromir shouted. They retreated even as the thing came after them, pulling down the doors behind them as they reached the safety of the mine entrance. There was a long moment of silence as they caught their breath and counted heads.

"We now have but one choice; we must face the long dark of Moria," Gandalf said wearily. "Be on your guard; there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world." Aragorn and Faramir shared a look; Boromir and Legolas looked deeply uneasy. Even Gimli seemed a little nervous in light of the apparent slaughter in the entryway. "Quietly now," Gandalf warned. "It is a four day journey to the other side. We must hope that our presence may go unnoticed." The hobbits huddled together as they began their journey up the stairway that led into Moria.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Boromir resisted the urge to groan. If the very fact that he was in a cave wasn't bad enough, the constant sound of water dripping somewhere was going to drive him mad ere he left this place. The cave at Henneth Annun was not so bad; there at least there had been a clear way out and the roar of the waterfall was a constant, almost comforting sound. The dripping, however, was erratic and infuriating and the musty darkness of the mines a tangible force pressing in on them. There was nothing for it, though, and so he took a deep breath and continued on.

They had been traveling for three days now; for having been through here before, Gandalf still lost his way quite frequently, necessitating hours of waiting and deliberation. The hobbits alone remained cheerful; somehow they never seemed to be depressed for long, some resiliency of spirit or perhaps simple naïveté giving them the ability to press on. Frodo, however, seemed jumpy today and kept looking over his shoulder.

Truth be told, Faramir felt it too: the sense that they were not quite alone in the mines. There would be a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a glint of light that was not quite right somehow, a prickling on the back of his neck occasionally. He could never catch sight of the lurking presence that followed them from deep down in the pits of Moria. If Boromir was going to go mad from the dripping, Faramir was going to do the same because of that nagging suspicion that they were being tracked by something or someone.

They stopped quite suddenly. Gandalf was looking around him at the top of a staircase and the look on his face said quite plainly that he did not know which of the three ways available would take them eastward toward the gates. "I have no memory of this place," he murmured.

"You are quite sure that you have been through these mines before?" Boromir muttered quietly, not particularly wishing to incur the wizard's wrath and yet unable to stop the complaint. Faramir snickered; the sharp-eared Istar glared.

"I entered from the east gate and the city has fallen into decay since last I was here. I should like to see you find your way around Minas Tirith in a thousand years time, Master Hurin. Now, if I may be allowed to think…" He turned away, sitting down where he had stopped.

"You should not antagonize him," Faramir said softly.

"I merely stated what you were thinking," Boromir defended equally quietly.

"But it is you he will turn into a toad, not me," Faramir replied with a smirk. Boromir snorted and also sat down.

Suddenly he whipped around; he was rewarded with by sight of something moving in the darkness below.

"It's Gollum," Aragorn supplied, coming to stand beside the brothers and scanning the shadows with his keen eyes. "He's been tracking us for three days."

"You have seen him before?"

"I tracked him in the Dead Marshes a few years ago. The smell lingered in my memory," Aragorn said dryly.

"He will alert the orcs to our presence," Faramir predicted, his hand moving towards the quiver of arrows and short bow he carried. Aragorn shook his head.

"That would not be to his advantage," he said. "He will do no harm for the present." He looked toward the top of the stair where Gandalf and Frodo were deep in conversation.

"Ah, it's that way," the Wizard said suddenly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"He's remembered!" Merry said.

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul down here. If in doubt Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

They continued on till they passed a doorway and entered into a large hall. "Let me risk a little more light," Gandalf said. The staff glowed brighter and suddenly it became clear what they had in truth come into.

"Behold! The great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf," Gandalf proclaimed. Great stone pillars reached to the ceiling and formed immense arcs. The sight was truly impressive and Faramir was reminded suddenly of Minas Tirith's great stone gateways. He found himself, for the first time in 16 years, homesick. From the look on Boromir's face, it was clear that he was feeling the same thing. On the elder Hurin's part, there was a sense of relief as well; for the first time since he had entered the mines he felt as though he could breathe.

Gimli broke away from the main group suddenly, heading toward a shaft of light that had appeared to the side. By the time they caught up with him he was kneeling at the foot of a stone sarcophagus.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria. He is dead then; it is as I feared," Gandalf said sadly. Gimli was saying something in dwarven; he was clearly devastated by this discovery, though he must have suspected since they had come through the gates.

"They have taken the bridge, and the second hall," Gandalf read aloud. "We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes; drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming."

The words chilled all of them to the very bone. There was a long moment of silence among them and then a loud clanging noise as Pippin, curious as ever, tipped a skeleton into the well.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf berated him. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" The hobbit looked mortified; Aragorn glared and Boromir heaved a sigh of mixed exasperation and disbelief. There was a sound of a hammer pounding, or perhaps a very strange drumbeat. Frodo's sword glowed blue, telling all in the room that they were about to be besieged.

Boromir ran to the door to look out and jerked back as three arrows hit the door where his head had been but a moment before. With Aragorn's help he heaved the door shut.

"They have a cave troll," he announced. The two barred the gates using the axes littering the floor and then stood back, waiting as they all were for the first attack.

The fight was an ugly one. Boromir was flung against a wall and sat dazed for a moment, alive only because of Aragorn's skill at throwing swords. The entire world seemed to stand still when Frodo was stabbed and afterward the fury of the rest of the Fellowship was palpable. Merry and Pippin in particular went after the troll that had injured their cousin, hanging on doggedly through the troll's best efforts to dislodge them. Legolas finally shot an arrow up through the troll's soft palate, bringing the creature down at last.

Aragorn was the first to reach Frodo. "Oh no," he murmured, rolling the hobbit over. Frodo coughed and sat up.

"I'm alright; I'm not hurt," he said.

"You should be dead! That spear would have skewered a wild boar!" Aragorn exclaimed incredulously. Frodo moved aside his shirt collar to show a shining coat of mail beneath his clothing.

"Mithril," Gimli breathed. "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!"

The sound of orcish shrieks brought them all back to their situation. "To the Bridge of Khazad-Dum," Gandalf said.

They raced through the hall they had come from. Orcs seemed to spew from the very earth itself, coming through cracks in the floor, holes in the ceiling. At last the Fellowship was surrounded, unable to run any farther. They stood in a circle, swords out and ready to make a last stand, however pointless.

There was a roaring noise and a light from the other end of the hall; the orcs looked around them and, as one, ran. Gimli laughed; the others stood around Gandalf, not sure what had driven the goblins away.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir asked quietly. Gandalf closed his eyes briefly, as though reluctant to face what he knew was coming.

"A Balrog of Moria: a demon of the ancient world." Legolas alone seemed to know what the Wizard spoke of, and the fear on his face was enough to tell the others what they needed to know. "This foe is beyond any of you," Gandalf continued. "Run!"

There was no time for consideration during the mad flight toward the bridge; they simply had to run and hope that they were headed in the right direction. Boromir hit the stairs at a run and did not realize that they did not continue until he saw the darkness almost directly in front of him. He teetered on the brink for a moment before Legolas pulled him back, making both of them fall backward onto the stairs. They were up again in a moment, Legolas jumping over the edge of one staircase to land with amazing dexterity and agility on another.

"Lead them on, Aragorn," Gandalf ordered. Aragorn looked at the Wizard in surprise. "The Bridge is near. Do as I say! Swords are no more use here!" The Ranger nodded and hurried on.

The break in the bridge deck yawned in front of them. Legolas was the first to jump over, shortly followed by Gandalf. Arrows whizzed about them; Aragorn took a shot at the orcish archers before ducking to avoid an arrow. Legolas, across the gap, took over from there, taking out the far off targets seemingly without effort.

"You next," Faramir told Aragorn. The Ranger tried to protest; the Rider gave him a steady look that brooked no argument. "You next, and then the Ringbearer," he insisted. "You two must come out of this alive even if the rest of us perish in the process." Gimli jumped after Aragorn and Frodo, refusing to be tossed to safety. For one moment it seemed as though he would fall backward but then Legolas's arm shot out and caught him by the beard. Boromir jumped across carrying Merry and Pippin, leaving Sam and Faramir on the opposite side. There was just one problem; the gap was now too wide to be jumped. They stood, stranded, a strange heat at their backs and the ground shaking.

There was a huge cracking noise behind them; half the stair broke off and fell into the darkness below. The remaining section of the stair rocked back and forth; Faramir gathered Sam close and swayed to try and keep his balance.

"Lean forward," he told the hobbit as the staircase began to sway forward. "Hold on!" For one horrible moment it seemed that the stair would tip sideways and take them with it and then they were jumping off, landing safely in the waiting arms of Aragorn and Boromir. Boromir hugged his brother close for one brief instant before they were off again down the stair and heading for the bridge.

Faramir took the lead this time, shortly followed by Aragorn. The younger man stopped suddenly when he saw the bridge ahead of him. "Aragorn – " he started to say; the Ranger pushed him forward.

"You can't change it, Faramir!" Aragorn yelled over the noise of the Balrog behind him. "Go!" Faramir took one last look behind him and ran across the bridge as fast as he dared. There was no rail, no way to keep from falling if he lost his balance. He held his breath until he reached the other side and then turned to see the others safely over.

Gandalf stopped in the middle of the bridge. If Faramir had thought that the lake beast was a nightmare, the creature that Gandalf faced was far, far worse. The thing was surrounded by shadow and seemed to be burning up within itself. The Wizard waited for the beast to reach him.

"You cannot pass!" The beast took one more step forward.

"I am a servant of the Sacred Fire, Wielder of the Flame of Anor; the Dark Fire will not avail you, Flame of Udun!" Gandalf seemed to glow until he was surrounded by a sphere of white light; the Balrog's flaming sword hit the sphere and bounced off, doing no damage. Gandalf seemed to flinch slightly under the force of the blow. The Fellowship watched, breathless.

"YOU – SHALL NOT – PASS!" The Maia pounded his staff against the bridge. The Balrog took snorted and tried to step forward once more; it fell backward as the bridge broke under it. Gandalf watched as the beast fell and turned away slowly, wearily. He had hardly gone three steps before a lash of fire curled around his ankle and pulled him backward. The Fellowship watched in horror; Frodo cried out the Wizard's name. Gandalf struggled for a moment to pull himself back up but could not do it. His eyes met Aragorn's for one brief moment.

"Fly, you fools!" he gasped. With that he let go his feeble grip on the edge of the bridge to follow the Balrog into the depths of Khazad-Dum.

whew

That was a really long chapter, but I wanted to get through Moria in one go. I am sorry it has taken so long for me to get this chapter up, but this was one spot that I had no idea how I was going to write from the beginning. Add to this a college course and a demanding professor and you get absolutely no time to write even if I had known what I was doing.


	10. Lothlorien

I liiiiiive! I went back to school and found myself wandering out of thought and time into other fandoms, but I have been called home at last by the clear ringing of my own conscience.

They made their way out of Moria in a sort of numb, grief-stricken haze. Half the group collapsed as soon as they were outside the mines; the other half stood, disbelieving and angry at the same time. Boromir restrained Gimli from going back in; Legolas wandered, looking confused and saddened at the same time. The hobbits were inconsolable; Merry and Pippin lay on the ground weeping while Sam sat up and did the same. Faramir stared into the distance, unseeing and unhearing. Aragorn alone did not grieve outwardly; he would save that for later.

"Legolas – get them up," he said to the dazed elf. Legolas seemed to snap out of it; he nodded.

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir protested. He had not been over-fond of the wizard but he had not wanted to see him dead, either. That Aragorn could shake off such a tragedy seemed callous to him.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlorien," the Ranger replied. Boromir did not protest again; instead he went to his brother, who started at the hand on his shoulder.

"Come; we must move on," the older Hurin said with a glower at their new leader. Orcs or not, he intended to have a word with the illustrious heir of Isildur about concern for the sensibilities of other people.

The next two days were a trial. The entire group was heart-weary; to add to that they were running low on supplies. Watch duty was tense; all of them were expecting trouble, if not from the mountain orcs then from the wolves they could still hear howling at night. The edge of the wood of Lothlorien was a welcome sight when they finally reached it.

Faramir felt a strange sort of languor come over him as he stepped beneath the giant trees of the Golden Wood. He had never truly understood the suspicion that his adopted people held of the elven realm, being of Gondor and widely read. Now, for the first time, he felt the strange atmosphere in the wood and understood. Not for nothing did Lothlorien mean "Dream flower"! He seemed to hear a strange whispering in the back of his head, not related to Gimli, who gave voice to the legends of Lothlorien as they existed among his people; he shook it off with a shudder and noticed that Frodo, too, appeared disturbed.

"Mister Frodo?" Sam questioned, seeing his master's unease. Frodo and Faramir locked eyes for a brief moment; the man nodded as if to say that he felt it too, and the hobbit took a deep breath, reassured that he was not hearing things.

"It's nothing," he answered. They continued on.

"Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily," Gimli went on. "I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox." But Faramir was not listening. He had not been a Ranger for two years without learning to look up, and he was doing so now. He was somewhat alarmed to find a pair of elven eyes looking at him down the shaft of an arrow.

"Legolas, if you could speak to your kinsmen?" he asked faintly, not moving. Legolas whirled, drawing his bow as the other members of the patrol dropped out of their trees.

"The dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark," a smooth voice said from in front of Faramir. The bow and arrow were lowered; Faramir breathed again. This, then, was the leader of the group, an elf with an air of authority and of pride. The elf scanned the group and seemed to nod. "Follow me," he ordered.

They reached Caras Galadhon the next day; Faramir found himself staring about in wonder, for the – could it be called a city? – had an ethereal feel to it, one which was added to by the strange lighting and the sheer splendor of the place. Even Haldir, the leader of the elven patrol, seemed somewhat awed.

Boromir was slightly less impressed. He was not a superstitious man, but surely it was not normal to be hearing a voice, someone else's voice no less, in one's head? Worse yet, the voice was offering words of comfort, which was surely at cross-purposes with its presence in the first place. Sleep in peace, Galadriel had said; Boromir could do no such thing.

"Take some rest," Aragorn advised. "These borders are well protected."

Boromir looked up and shook his head.

"I will find no rest here." He hesitated for a moment under Aragorn's questioning gaze before deciding to admit what he had heard. "I heard a voice inside my head," he said reluctantly. "She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, even now, there is hope left, but I cannot see it."

Faramir had wandered over by now; he frowned. "You heard it too, then?" he asked, sitting down. Boromir shot him a grateful look; he had thought, briefly, that he might have gone mad.

"She spoke to me also," the younger Hurin said, his expression troubled. "She said… much the same of Rohan, though she spoke of King Théoden. But what of Gondor?"

Boromir took a deep breath and said, "It is long since we had any hope. Our father is a noble man, but his rule is failing, and now our... our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it; I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? Do you remember… the White Tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze? Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?"

"I have seen the White City, long ago," Aragorn said.

"One day, our paths will lead us there, and the tower guard shall take up the call, 'the lords of Gondor have returned!'" Boromir enthused. Then he looked at his brother and the smile disappeared from his face. "I am sorry, little brother… I forgot…" Faramir waved a hand dismissively, but it did not take a mind reader to see the pain buried in his eyes. Aragorn stood and padded away; Boromir let him leave, all intentions of taking him to task forgotten.

"Do you miss it?" Boromir asked quietly. Faramir turned away.

"I didn't leave out of a sense of aesthetics," he answered, as close as he would come to admitting that he did indeed miss Minas Tirith. He did not dare think on it too long; he could not come back to Gondor, and so… he would have to be content with his life as it was.

"If I vouched for you… or if Aragorn took up the throne…" Boromir started, but Faramir shook his head.

"I would still have to face our… _your_… father. As long as he lives… no, brother." He stood up, closing the discussion. "I for one am going to try to get some sleep. Gods bless." He walked away, leaving Boromir to ponder.


	11. Amon Hen

They left Lothlorien the following day in boats lent to them by Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Frodo was strangely quiet; Faramir wondered uneasily what had been said to the Ring-bearer to worry him.

"Every league you travel south, the danger will increase," Celeborn advised. "Mordor Orcs now patrol the eastern shore of the Anduin. Nor will you find safety on the western bank. Strange creatures bearing the White Hand have been seen on our borders. Seldom do the orcs journey in the open sun, yet these have done so." Faramir, standing near to Aragorn, heard this and drew his breath in sharply.

"Uruks," he said, disgust and anger in his voice. Celeborn turned sharply.

"You know of these creatures?"

"They have been plaguing Rohan for some time now," the Rider replied. "They're some kind of half-breed; they are both stronger and faster than orcs. They've been spotted here?"

"Many times over the past weeks." Celeborn turned back to Aragorn. "By river you have the chance of outrunning the enemy to the Falls of Rauros." He handed the Ranger a dagger and turned away.

They spent four days on the river. Between the last two days, however, the tension in the group seemed to increase, or rather, the tension between Aragorn and Boromir did. By the time they reached the shore near Parth Galen, neither of the two was talking to the other; Aragorn was in a foul humor, willing to listen to no one and Boromir would not discuss what had caused the rift, even with Faramir.

"I'll go for firewood," Boromir said tersely as they set up camp for the night.

"We cross the lake at nightfall, hide the boats, and continue on foot. We approach Mordor from the north," Aragorn said.

"Oh yes? Just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil, an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better! Festering, stinking marshlands as far as the eye can see!" Gimli said dourly. Aragorn, however, was in no mood for argument.

"That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf," he replied flatly. Gimli, insulted, huffed at this.

"Recover my strength… pay no heed to that young Hobbits!" he exclaimed. Merry, however, was indeed not paying attention; instead he was looking about the camp. After a moment's inspection he frowned.

"Where's Frodo?" he asked. Very suddenly everyone went quiet; Legolas ceased his conversation with Aragorn. Where, indeed, was the Ring-bearer?

"Where is Boromir?" Aragorn asked. Faramir whipped around; Boromir was nowhere to be found. Surely it did not take this long to gather firewood?

"You do not think…?" Legolas asked. Aragorn shook his head grimly.

"Wherever they may be, this is no time to wander. Merry, Pippin, you go that way, try to find them; Legolas, Gimli…?" Legolas nodded and strode away into the trees. "Faramir, you come with me; we'll head for Parth Galen and have a look about. Hurry!"

The two men made good time to the high seat; in fact, they were just in time to see Frodo fall off as he wrenched the Ring off his finger.

"Frodo?" Aragorn asked, concern in his voice. Why had the hobbit been wearing the Ring?

"It has taken Boromir." Aragorn turned to Faramir.

"Keep looking for him. He's somewhere close by." Faramir nodded and began to descend the hill.

"Where is the Ring?" Aragorn asked, turning back to Frodo. But the hobbit was shying away; he retreated behind the high seat of Parth Galen.

"Stay away!" he cried.

"I swore to protect you," Aragorn said, hurt by the mistrust in the Ring-bearer's eyes.

"Can you protect me from yourself? Would you destroy it?" The questions cut deep. All his life, Aragorn had feared falling to temptation just as Isildur had; now Frodo was also questioning his strength of will. In that moment of doubt, the Ring took its chance.

"Aragorn… Elessar…" The whisper came to him as though from a great distance; he seemed to see himself wearing the winged crown of Gondor and sitting in the White Throne. Arwen was by his side; Elrond was smiling at him, not frowning as he had been so often of late, and...

No! He could not do it; he could not betray his friend, could not give in! He closed Frodo's fingers around the Ring, removing the temptation.

"I would have gone with you to the end," he said, a vast weight lifting from his shoulders, "into the very fires of Mordor." He felt like cheering; he had resisted! Frodo looked at him for a long moment and saw the sincerity in the Ranger's eyes.

"I know," he said. Aragorn frowned suddenly; he looked down toward the sword at Frodo's waist.

"Run, Frodo," he said suddenly, unsheathing Anduril. "Run!" The hobbit, startled, noticed the blue glow emanating from Sting and, turning away, ran back down the hill, away from the approaching army.

It seemed like they had fought only a few minutes or maybe a few hours, before they heard the Horn of Gondor. "Boromir," Aragorn said, realizing with a sinking feeling that the Gondorian had been alone in the forest.

Faramir was moving faster than he had ever done in his life. The horn call had lit a fire under his feet such as Aragorn and Legolas could not possibly have matched; Uruks that got in his way were summarily cut down and he still got there just in time to hear his brother cry out in pain. He saw, to his horror, a black shaft protruding from Boromir's shoulder and a grotesque half-orc readying another arrow. It leveled the bow… and roared in fury as the bolt went wild and it crashed to the ground. It roared once more before Faramir slashed its head off, a surge of rage and desperation giving him strength. Boromir nodded grimly, raised his sword in gratitude, and kept fighting.

Eventually they wound up almost back to back with the hobbits behind them; Merry and Pippin watched with wide eyes, completely unprepared for what they were seeing. Even the fighting in Moria had not prepared them for this savagery as both men and Uruks used whatever was open to them. Boromir, however, was faltering, until at last he barely blocked a cut from an Uruk and sank to his knees, weak from blood loss. The half-orc raised its sword to strike again and stayed there, frozen, for out of its back stuck Pippin's sword. The Uruk toppled to the side, dead, and Boromir saw the hobbit standing with a slightly surprised expression on his face.

"Get back!" Faramir shouted at the hobbits, but Merry had now jumped into the fray and was scooped up and carried off. Pippin ran after his cousin, was similarly treated, and very suddenly the Uruks' fighting style changed. As one they turned and fled, no longer on the offensive, until at last the band was gone into the woods. Aragorn arrived just as Boromir cursed and tried to rise.

"What happened?" the Ranger asked urgently.

"They took the little ones," Boromir replied, trying to stand again. Faramir placed a restraining hand on his brother's uninjured shoulder.

"The Uruks took Merry and Pippin; where Sam and Frodo are I do not know. Be still, you'll make this worse." This last was directed at Boromir; the big man shook his head bitterly.

"You should have let me die," he said. The mention of Frodo had brought the guilt flooding back; he did not meet Faramir's startled gaze.

"Why?" The question came from Aragorn.

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," Boromir replied. "Forgive me… I have failed you all."

"No; you made a mistake with a great many nudges from the Ring itself. Stronger men than yourself have fallen to the Ring's flattery. Now be still; this arrow must come out if we are to go after the Uruks," Aragorn said gently. He turned to find Legolas and Gimli waiting. "There are supplies in my pack, salve and bandages…" Legolas nodded and headed back toward the camp; Gimli regarded the wound and the arrow shaft and winced.

"That's going to hurt coming out, laddie," he advised. Boromir grimaced and nodded. He looked toward Faramir, who had not said a word.

"Faramir…" he said. The younger Hurin turned back toward him. There was confusion in his eyes and worry, but no condemnation and Boromir breathed a little easier.

"You do not hate me for what I have done?" he asked.

"If it had not been you it would have been someone else," Faramir replied. "It has been preying on us all lately; I do not blame you for wanting what it seemed to offer."

"It was like I had gone mad… like I couldn't control myself," Boromir said, horror in his eyes. "All of a sudden I could see Osgiliath again and I thought, if I just had the Ring, we could stop this war… and then I thought about Father and…" he took a shuddering breath.

"You fought bravely, Boromir," Aragorn said soothingly. "You kept your honor. Do not berate yourself."

Legolas arrived with Aragorn's pack; the Ranger rummaged about for a moment before pulling out what few healing supplies he kept with him.

Phew! Two chapters in one night…

And never fear, the declaration of loyalty from Boromir to Aragorn will come, just not in this chapter!

As a note, I could really use some reviews on this thing. Reviews are like chocolate to a writer; there is no such thing as too many reviews.


	12. A Father's Love

Sorry for the delay, folks, but real life got in the way in the form of college. There was going to be more to this chapter, but on the theory that my readers have not totally deserted me, I decided to post this as an indication that I have not, in fact, died.

* * *

The horn call froze Denethor in his seat. He recognized it instantly; after all, there was only one such instrument forged from a Kine's horn to his knowledge, and the sound made his blood run cold and the hair on the back of his neck rise.

"Please, dear Gods, not both of them!" he whispered, stricken. He half rose out of his seat, intending to go to the window, before realizing where he was.

"My lord?" one of the Lords of the Council inquired, seeing Denethor's sudden pallor. The Steward looked toward Imrahil, his brother-in-law and the next in rank. The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded, understanding, for he too had heard the horn blowing.

"May I suggest that we adjourn for the time being, gentlemen? Lord Denethor?" Denethor waved a hand, too preoccupied to answer. Chairs scraped against the stone floor, robes swished, and the Council hall was left empty save for Denethor and Imrahil.

"Boromir," Imrahil said, voicing what Denethor could not.

"To be blown in dire need…" Denethor said, "I told him to wind it only in desperate circumstances, when he needed aid and could call for it in no other way. What can he be doing…?" It was Imrahil's turn to pale as he came to understand the significance of the sound.

"I could turn out the White Guard…," he said, searching for a way to aid his nephew. Denethor shook his head.

"And tell them to go where? To…?" He paced restlessly in agitation and worry. "I do not know where he may be and so I cannot help him. Unless…" A gleam came into his eye, the spark of an idea, and Imrahil did not like the look one bit.

"You are not thinking…?"

"How can I sit by while my son is in danger?" Denethor snapped. "Stand ready for my orders, my lord Imrahil." With that, he strode out of the chamber, leaving a very uneasy Imrahil behind him.

The Steward of Gondor was gone for perhaps half of an hour. When he entered the Council hall again, however, the spark had gone out of his eyes; his face was haggard and the proud man's shoulders slumped, not only with fatigue but with grief. He met Imrahil's questioning gaze for one brief moment and shook his head. Slowly, just once, and yet it was enough to tell the Prince of Dol Amroth that his nephew was dead. Denethor did not wait for a response; he was gone by the time Imrahil raised his head.

Denethor made his way back to his chambers in a state of shock. Boromir, his Boromir, was dead, just like Faramir. The palantir had shown him his son's body lying dead, surrounded by orcs, and still the Steward did not know where Boromir had fallen, for there had been no landmarks of any kind and no matter how much Denethor may have wished for a proper burial for his son, he could not send out valuable troops to search for the body.

He could not weep; he did not understand why, but he could not cry for his firstborn any more than he had done so for his second son so many years before. Ah and there was still another wound, for Denethor himself had caused Faramir's death; he knew it in his heart. What kind of a monster was he that he could not weep for his sons?

Why, why on Arda had he allowed Boromir to go off on that fool mission to Imladris? Why had he been so utterly stupid as to send his son away when he was needed most? And most of all, why had Boromir not come home? Why, why, why – the question resounded within his mind until he thought he would go mad, for he did not know the answer to any of his own questions.


End file.
